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*****
"Ten. Ten of them—now!!!"
The enforcer drove his rifle's butt into the ground and ground out the order through clenched teeth. He was already trapped.
With both sides staring each other down, and his leaders captured and unable to press the attack, his morale had already taken a hit. Then this child had appeared—first slapping away two guards, then four, then eight.
Eight guards might be a drop in the ocean for the whole force, yet the blow to the enforcers' pride was real. If a full fight broke out, their momentum would be weaker for it.
He'd already sent word to the council for instructions, but until an answer came, he couldn't allow this child to keep humiliating them.
"Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack!"
Ten guards lunged at George like starving tigers—then, almost in perfect unison, they were blown back as if petals scattered by a gust.
Slap after slap. These were the ten strongest guards in the enforcer unit—men who usually fought two or three opponents at once. Yet not even their combined strength could stop the boy's hand.
Everyone froze. Even the store owner and Silco's men were stunned. Silco glanced at his secret weapon—the Glimmer-enhanced fighters he'd just commissioned. He had been confident in their combat power, but now he hesitated. Could those augmented men defeat this child? After all, even an enhanced fighter could not, in an instant, send ten of the city's toughest guards flying.
"This—this is impossible!"
The enforcer's mouth twitched. He hadn't expected this outcome. Earlier, the guards who'd gone forward had been reckless and easily felled by a surprise attack; that he could understand. But this time the ten best men had advanced with extreme caution, yet the result was the same. This was abnormal.
Who—what—was this boy? A Yordle? He didn't look like one.
Professor Heimerdinger, the most respected council member and a Yordle, had a lifespan of centuries and a stature comparable to a ten-year-old child—but Yordles had a distinctive look. This boy was plainly human; he couldn't be a centuries-old Yordle master in disguise.
While the enforcer wrestled with that thought, a guard hurried up and whispered in his ear.
"Order: everyone on the other side put down weapons and kneel in surrender immediately."
Hearing that, the enforcer drew a deep breath and then shouted again:
"All guards—attack with everything! Anyone who disobeys will be shot on sight!"
The situation had already been transmitted to the council. After rapid consultation among the six council members, all but Professor Heimerdinger had agreed: the Lanes must be purged. Even if Grayson and Marcus were lost, the Upper City's authority had to be asserted. There could be no repeat of the rebellion six years ago.
The city's guard tightened their grips on rifles.
"Surrender? Over my dead body! Brothers—kill them!"
None of Vander's men would surrender. They hefted their weapons and charged the enforcers.
Silco narrowed his eyes and drew his men back a safe distance, stepping out of the immediate combat zone. Better to profit once the chaos unfolded than to throw himself into needless risk.
"Kill them! Kill them!"
George whooped, feigning drunken exhilaration as he surged forward to lead the charge against the enforcers. That was exactly the effect he wanted: everything that had happened today would look natural and believable, without any trace of foul play.
In the history of Upper vs. Lower City conflict, his role was a simple one—the drunken, belligerent comrade who led the charge. It altered the outcome in subtle ways, but nothing that would ring false in hindsight. People would just say he'd had too much to drink and gotten carried away; friends who got drunk tended to act on impulse.
He could have done things more directly—used mind-control spells like Soul-Steal or Dual-Guard to bend the councilors, or controlled Vander and forced a direct assault on the Upper City. With his power he could have taken Piltover easily, seized its trade networks, and harvested arcane tomes, runes, and intelligence.
But in a world as diverse and fragile as this one, overt magical manipulation would brand him a villain and rally heroes against him. He preferred methods with the fewest long-term consequences—slower, but safer. A few days' delay cost nothing; the outcome would still come. He estimated a week to complete his plan, but with the current momentum, perhaps even a day would suffice.
"Smack, smack, smack, smack—"
George charged through the enforcers with a staggering, drunken gait, dodging bullets by sheer luck and audacity. His first slap sent the enforcer leader flying; then he began to hand out slaps like a whirlwind through the ranks.
No one could block him. Anyone struck by his palm was knocked skyward and out cold. Because George led the charge and felled the enforcer commander first, it pierced the line like a dagger—Piltover's guards faltered, unsure whether to aim at him or at the throng behind him.
The Lanes' toughs surged in, and the orderly ranks dissolved into chaotic street brawling.
Six years ago, the Lower City had lost largely because the Upper City's technology and armament outmatched them. While the Lanes still fought with blades and scrap armor, the enforcers were equipped with rifles and protective gear. When the battle first erupted, the Lanes bled under wave after wave of point-blank fire. By the time the struggle reached the Piltover Bridge and descended into melee, only a few remained. Vander had then chosen to end the fight to save lives—and the cost of that rebellion had been high.
Silco had split from Vander at that time, calling him a coward who betrayed their original cause. He had intended to use this moment to remove Vander if given the chance. But now the scene had changed: not a soul in the Lanes had been lost yet, while the enforcers had already been beaten back—George alone had sent nearly half their men flying, and the toughs were engaging at close quarters.
(End of Chapter)